


Musings Of The Evil Twin

by Iceyprincess



Category: Changeling: The Lost, Parahumans Series - Wildbow, World of Darkness (Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Existential Angst, Gen, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-11 20:50:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16860079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iceyprincess/pseuds/Iceyprincess
Summary: A year ago, Taylor Hebert wandered alone into the forest surrounding her summer camp. A creature wearing her face came back. Now, after escaping a world of insanity, Taylor finds out the real world might not be much better.





	1. The Grand Escape

**Author's Note:**

> First thing I'm posting here- Was originally on the Spacebattles forums but I'm moving it here. No idea what I'm doing with tags and stuff, let me know if I screwed up. A part of this chapter was written by my lovely girlfriend, who I am unsure if she is on this website.

Once, I was a work of Art. I mean that in more ways than one. I was an inspiration. Stories were written of me, so many stories. Artwork of me in a thousand different poses and places. Hundreds of songs about me. I still had one of them stuck in my head. It was unreasonably catchy.

Occasionally, though? I was literally Art. I was carved into sculptures, felt every little crack of a chisel. Sometimes, I did performance pieces. I danced, or froze, or had needles stuck in all over my skin. I didn’t understand half of it, but it was Art, and I was the masterpiece. 

I really, really hate Art. That’s because, through all my time as Art, being Art, creating Art, Living Art, I learned something very very important. Art is suffering. It didn’t matter what was happening. As a sculptor, My body was carved away from me, made into something beautiful and perfect in the most awful way, and I couldn’t even scream. When being painted, I endured hours of perfect stillness in horrifying scenes. In writing, I plunged through plotlines that built me up only to tear it all away again. Even in music, the most innocent of all Art, involved woeful songs of losing everything, or peppy pop songs about hollow teenaged love, which is honestly about as bad as anything else on this list.

 

I hated Art. I hated all of it. And most of all? I hated Her for making it. It was Her who wrote the songs, carved the sculptures, made the paintings. The Mistress of the Jagged Crown. Lady of the Withering Winter. Princess of Frozen Terror. Saint of Cold Hearts. So many titles. So many names. She changed them almost daily, but it was all the same. She was the Artist. I was the Art.

I don’t know how long I was there. In that strange, unearthly palace. On those stages with an audience of inhuman things that stretched endlessly. It felt like decades. But my body was still young. Healthy. Beautiful. And when the time came, and I started thinking, in a way that was so often denied to me? I remembered. My name. My family. My best friend. 

Taylor Hebert. Dad. Emma. 

Something opened up to me. I smelled the grass of my front yawn, I heard the laughter of Emma, I felt the subtle vibrations of that car I spent so many road trips in. I missed it. More than anything. I wanted to go back, to see it all again. And I RAN.

I am Taylor Goddamn Hebert and I’m not going to stand for this anymore!

And then, there was the thorn bushes. The maze of twisting hedges. I ran. The thorns cut deep. I twisted and turned and pushed. I heard screams of rage, of pure fury behind me. I didn’t stop. I kept going and going and going. My legs screamed under me. The ached and begged for rest that I would not provide. It hurts so much. But I needed to get away. Needed to get away, never stop moving, never resting, go go go-

…

It was beautiful. I tumbled out into an alleyway, the ground wet. It was raining. I looked up and saw a million twinkling stars in the night. No, not stars. Buildings. A city. I breathed in and smelled burning oil and car exhausted and it was the most wonderful thing I have ever experienced. I cried. I curled up next to a dumpster and cried. I was safe. I was free. I was home.

It wasn’t long lived.

 

\------

She tapped her pen on her desk. She was incredibly uncomfortable on this particular day, which is really saying something given her general experience with the public schooling system and associated bullies within. It was about an half an hour until class ends. Neither Madison or Sophia was in this class, and Emma had some kind of medical issue. Today though, they weren’t the issue. 

What was the issue was the feeling she got last night. It was like someone came into her house and tried to choke her in her sleep with sharpened nails, and waking up to feel like she was being chosen for the slaughter. When she looked around there was nothing in her room, and using her bugs didn’t turn up anything. But no matter what, she still felt like she was being hunted by someone, something. A cape? Did they find her out? Maybe it was the spiders she had making her costume that tipped them off. She didn’t feel watched right now, but what about later, when she isn’t surrounded by people? She’d need to make preparations, right? Maybe lines of silk across doors so notices when people go through, and when they do there’s a brown recluse on their head. 

She looks around the room. There are a few of the hangers on, but without someone to coordinate them they have no real reason to go after her. She might be able to get some work done for once, if she can stop being distracted about this. It’s just English, right? Just words. She just has to get the essay done, and then she can get home. 

\------

Walking home was difficult. For one, I was barefoot, so all the puddles and little sharp rocks I had to walk through was bad. I got a few stares, too. I was wearing some sort of godawful toga thing. It figures, Our Lady of Infinite Pretentiousness would never use something practical, No. It’s for the Art! 

I shuddered a little just thinking about her. Not that I could, really. All of it...It seemed like a bad dream. So far away. I could barely remember any of it. Only the pain. The suffering. But it was all over now. Couldn’t hurt me anymore. But it was real. It happened. I know it did. I was covered in a thousand little cuts from the thornbush I sprinted through. My hair was done up in a ridiculous braid. I was still wearing this goddamn toga! I was looking forward to cleaning up, drying off, collapsing in my bed for a week. The thought kept me going.

My home. It was there, exactly as I remember it. It made my heart ache. I couldn’t keep the stupid grin off my face as I walked up to the door. Now, let’s see, where was the...Oh, damn it. Dad must’ve moved the spare key. Oh well, the lights are on, so he must be inside. I’ll just knock.

And so I did. And I waited a few minutes for the lock to finally click. And the door swung open and there was Dad and everything was okay and real and I just stood there staring at him like a dumb idiot and I was crying and then my entire happy through process caught on fire, crashed into a ditch, and exploded because of Her! 

It was me. Those gangly limbs and that too-wide mouth and that curly brown hair. I was looking at a mirror. But she moved. She stared at me with the same existential horror that I’m sure she was feeling, because I was feeling it myself. And we just stared at each other. And everything faded away. And it was just me and her. Me and Her. Me and HER!

I was broken out of my trance by Dad. He wove a hand in front of my face and I startled, stared at him like a deer in the headlights. He asked me if I was okay. Who I was. What I wanted. He didn’t recognize me. He looked at me like a stranger. Because to him, I wasn’t his daughter. His daughter was standing in the room behind him. 

I couldn’t take it. I just turned. And I ran. I ran until my legs finally gave out from under me and I collapsed in the street. Darkness closed in on me. I couldn’t find it within myself to care. Even with the rain pouring down on me, all my cuts and scrapes stinging, I couldn’t care.

Ever so slowly, I let myself drift away.


	2. A Plan In Action

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty old writing. Not super happy with it anymore but I felt like I should just get it out there.

White. White ceiling, white walls. The faint scent of lemon and chemicals. The bed I was in was hardly comfortable, but it was a bed, and it was warm, with sheets. My body ached. I was in...a hospital. I wasn’t entirely sure how I ended up here. Someone actually called an ambulance for some random girl passed out on the side of the road? Wow, Brockton, you managed not to be shit for once.

For a few glorious minutes, I managed to pretend that everything was just a bad dream. That there was an accident, I hit my head or something, and the eons of Art that I went through was just the confused ramblings of a brain-damaged girl that happened to be focusing a little too hard on the arts and crafts classes I was doing in summer camp. That, any second now, my Dad would come in, hug me, and tell me everything was going to be alright. I had really convinced myself, too.

Then my hair fell in my face. My blond hair.

I spent a while just crying, after that. I couldn’t help it. The past day or two of my life was nothing but raising my hopes and then smashing it on the ground. She took everything from me. My life. My family. My appearance. What was I going to do? What could I possibly do?

The answer was rather obvious. I was going to take it back. I was going to take it ALL back.

I didn’t notice the nurse until she put a hand on my shoulder, which caused me to rather embarrassingly yelp in surprise and pull away. She gave me a look that just oozed pity. It took me a moment to realize what I must’ve looked like.

Well, step one of any plan to get my life back involves me not being in the hospital. I wasn’t going to waste a lot of time. That imposer knew I was around now, and might take steps to ensure I wouldn’t do anything. So, I did what any girl in this situation would do, and started crying harder.

I talked to the nurse, some. I asked her what happened, and she told me I was found on the side of the road, littered with cuts. Some of them were bad and deep enough that I needed quite a few stitches, it seems. She asked me what happened. I babbled and sobbed as I made up a story of how I was the victim of sex trafficking, how my captors had made me dress up in different outfits, force me to do things and record them, would cut me if I fell out of line.

I couldn’t tell the full truth, obviously. They’d lock me away in a padded cell. So I told partial truths instead. It’s just...easier, that way.

I told the story again when the police came a little later. I found out it was ridiculously easy to convince people of these things. I was a ridiculously good actor after all those plays I did. I shuddered a little at the idea that She gave me practical skills. It made me resent Her all the more. The police, for their part, look suitably horrified, even though I’m sure they saw this kind of stuff all the time.

I made up a bunch of background details. Named a random city halfway across the country, made up a new name, told them about a father that doesn’t exist. The story would fall apart if they fact-checked it, I knew. But I wouldn’t give them time for it. I was going to be moved to the police station, soon, which I knew was likely going to be harder to sneak out of. So I’d have to give the slip before then. Damn.

They got me some basic clothing, and I got a small mirror when I asked for it. I was…

When you’ve gone through a life without much hardships, little things like ‘being pretty’ seem like the most important things in the world. I was kinda like that, before all this. I was in the midst of puberty just before Mom died, so I was starting to worry about my appearance a lot more. I wasn’t the most attractive girl. I thought back to the times Emma would brush my hair and do my make-up. She always knew much more about that stuff. And for a while, I could see it, I could see myself being pretty. But not entirely.

But now? I was fucking gorgeous. My features were downright stunning. I couldn’t notice any flaws of my skin. My face was perfectly proportioned. My hair somehow managed to look good even though I had the mother of all bedhead. My teeth were white and straight. I was still very tall for my age- but looking over myself, that just seemed to make me look older than I really was, and in a good way. I was curvy, even!

And I fucking hated it!

I hated every little detail of my new look. All of it. I hated how attractive I was. Because I didn’t look like me. I missed my too-wide mouth and strange stick-thin limbs. My heart ached for my brown curls. Somehow, what most might consider a blessing has become a curse. Because I couldn’t recognize the person in the mirror. I was attractive. Taylor Hebert wasn’t.

I almost broke down again. I managed to stop myself, for a moment- before letting myself breakdown again, because the police were still in the room. I had almost forgotten about them. The breakdown worked in my favor. I asked for some privacy, which they gladly gave me.

When I had composed myself, I gathered up the few possessions I had, still, and opened up the window. Carefully, I crawled out, and dropped.

I had fallen about 4 floors down when I realized that, no, gravity didn’t work that way, and I couldn’t just land in a dumpster or do a 3-point landing and be fine. Fuck you, Movies. Panic set in quickly and I screamed, and begged for something to save me, while the ground was rapidly coming up to meet me. Hell, in my hysteria I had begged gravity itself to stop and save me.

To my surprise, gravity answered.

\----

Okay. So, I will admit. That was not my brightest idea. However, I didn’t die! Which was wonderful. Instead of breaking all the bones in my body I probably just have a full-body bruise. Which, you know, also sucks, but it’s better than the alternative.

I don’t know exactly why I decided it was a good idea to crawl out of a window twelve stories up, but I somehow made it work. It was strange. I called on...something. Something instinctual. It took a little bit of something from me, and in return, my fall started slowing. It was like gravity was just having less effect on me. It still hurt a fuck ton, though.

Which brings me to the most important discovery from that ordeal: I can do magic!

And I’m talking about legitimate magic, here. Myrddin has nothing on me. It only took a little bit of experimenting to realize that. I mean, I did spend a few minutes trying to rationalize it away with what I knew of parahuman powers...but then I thought about the eons I spent with...Her. That was magic. There’s no way that wasn’t magic. Powers don’t do that. At least, I don’t think they do.

So I spent a while experimenting. Figuring out what I can do. I think I must’ve picked several tricks up while over...There. Whenever There was. With Her. I need to think of a name for that place. Anyway, I know several tricks just off of instinct. Doing these tricks drains some sort of power from me, and the fanciest and most powerful I can just tell demand the highest cost. I haven’t figured out how to refill that energy yet, though.

So far, I’ve tried walking on water, convincing other people that I’m their boss, and turning my footsteps in the beech into paw prints. That last one didn’t actually cost me anything, though. All I had to do was lick my thumb and smudge it on a mirror. It was some sort of...loophole.

All these powers feel like...deals. Like I’m cutting a deal with inanimate forces. Like, Hey, Gravity, can you slow down a little? And Gravity is like Oh, yeah, Sure Taylor, will do. And I give them a bit of energy and everything is fine. Because that’s the thing- It’s always something external, reaching out to me.

It’s all a little hard to think of, really. Gives me a headache. I can just tell there’s a lot more that I know, but can’t quite remember. Like it’s just on the tip of my tongue, waiting for me to remember it and start using it.

That’s going to have to wait until later, though. I’ve already wasted all day experimenting with my magic. I found myself in a little park, and sat myself on a bench to watch the sunset. I needed a plan of action. A goal to work towards. I had a little journal and a pen- Some old lady was throwing out his son’s. After tearing out most of the already written pages, (with some rather crude drawing, ew), I got to work, spending a while just writing out various goals and questions about my life. Only when it started getting dark is when I decided to stop, getting up.

Getting up, I put my notebook back into the shitty bag I managed to get a hold of, and started searching the city. I needed somewhere I could sleep. A homeless shelter might work, but I don’t know how long that'll last. Perhaps I’d be able to convince someone to take me in? That one might work. I was a rather great actor, at this point.

With my new plan formed, I actually went and returned to my neighborhood. Staying somewhat close to my home would make surveillance much easier. And I knew just the person to ask, too. Miss Jeanna.

Miss Jeanna is an old woman that lives down the street from my house. Me and Dad never saw her too much, she never really left her house, but from the few times I’ve met her, she seemed like a sweetheart. She lived in a house larger than mine, actually, if just by a bit. I figure that her kids have all fled the nest, as it were, and she might be lonely enough to take in a stray.

Knocking on the door, I prepared myself, looking as distraught as possible. When Miss Jeanna answered the door I was already babbling the sob story I had prepared. I had run away from home, my parents were abusive, I didn’t know where to go so I just knocked on random doors until someone would take me in. I had made the right choice, it seems, because soon she let me in and scuttled off to make tea.

Sitting on her couch, a blanket around my shoulders, a cup of tea in my hand, I regaled more and more of my fake story, telling her about every little detail I made up on the spot. It went better than I had expected, even. She offered to let me stay as long as I’d like, and I turned down her offer to call the police- I said I just needed some quiet time to deal with things before I did anything official.

The guest room was small, and bland, but cozy, and had a window overlooking the street outside. I wasted no time in curling up in that bed. I felt a little bad about taking advantage of an old woman like that- but I really, really needed this. I’ll probably tell her the truth later. When I’m on my own two feet. She’ll understand, I’m sure.

Slowly, I drifted off to a sleep filled with faeries and thorn bushes.


	3. Interlude one: Taylor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short little snippet from Fetch!Taylor's perspective.

I felt tense. So very, very tense. Every instinct in me was screaming at me, telling that someone, something was coming for me, was going to get me. My heart was beating out of my chest, and when there was a knock on the door, I had to hide my gasp. I could feel it. It was here. Whatever was coming for me. I was frozen, staring at that door as Dad got up from the sofa and went to answer it. I wanted to scream, to cry, to send every bug I had to devour whatever was on the other side of that door, but I couldn’t.

Dad opened the door. And on the other side might as well have been the grim reaper.

She was absolutely beautiful. Beyond beautiful. She was everything I wasn’t. She was a mess- covered in dirt and mud, and cuts were opened up across her entire body. Her clothing was in tatters. And yet, despite all of this, she managed to look all the more beautiful. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was actually a statue, and I saw her standing in a museum. It’s as if you took everything that made someone beautiful, turned it up to 11, and put it on a single person.

But there was something more to her. Something beyond the flesh. Something so very hard to describe.

It’s like...The night sky. Have you ever seen the night sky, without any clouds, or pollution, or light, or anything? It’s so bright. So utterly beautiful. So big. Your mind has trouble comprehending everything there is to it. You’re standing there, staring into infinity, and you try to imagine just what might be out there, what kind of wonders and beauties you’ll never be able to see. And you feel so small, compared to it. A speck of dust, standing on a tiny marble, hurling through the endless abyss.

She was terrifying. She filled me with awe and dread. It was more than what she just represented- She was simply so beautiful it was scary. It was an odd mixture of excitement and terror. It was like when Mom and Dad brought me to the grand canyon, on vacation, when I was eight. I went up to the edge and I clung to the railing for dear life as I looked out over it. It was beautiful, and despite knowing that I wouldn’t, I was convinced that at any moment I would fall, tumble downward into it, and it would devour me whole.

She was something that could only be described in metaphors, because it wasn’t just her flesh that made her beautiful. It was something else. Something ethereal. Perhaps it was the way she stood, and the way she moved and looked around, the way her hair fell just right and her clothing ruffled just so, perhaps it was everything about her, accumulating into a perfect storm. Perhaps there really was something deeper, something hidden behind her flesh, something so much bigger and grander than what can be contained in the human form.

All I knew was, I was staring into the abyss, and it was staring back.

Neither of us moved when we locked eyes. Time seemed to stand still. I could swear we shared the same expression. Shock, and recognition. It was like staring into the mirror. Because she was Me. It took a moment, in that frozen second, to sink in. But she was me. She is everything I was supposed to be. Everything I could’ve been. She was the real me. The real Taylor Hebert. I was just...a pale shadow. A cruel mockery. Dimly, I wondered if that was why Emma hated me. Instead of her friend, an imitation came back from summer camp, and some part of her realized. I wondered if she knew, or if she was rejecting me on a subconscious level.

The real me turned and ran away, after a moment. I couldn’t bring myself to wonder why. My mind was reeling. My worldview was shattered within just a few seconds. I stood up, slowly, from my seat in the living room, and started walking upstairs. I ignored my father asking me what was wrong. I just walked up, and into my room. I locked the door behind me.

I collapsed into my bed, and I started to cry.


	4. Beauty and the Beast.

There were only two sounds that anyone could hear. The buzzing of insects, and roars of pure rage. It filled the alleyway, the street, and the nearby buildings. One dragon, against a billion tiny soldiers. The Queen’s knights marched to the beating of her heart, throwing their lives away for the whims of a single girl. But the Dragon was stronger. He burnt the soldiers to cinders, his every movement killing thousands. A billion tiny blades cut at the Dragon, but the Dragon held strong. 

She was so, so stupid. The Queen knew she could not win this fight, and yet she tried anyway. And for what? The Greater Good? It would hardly matter when she was devoured alive by the vicious beast. The Queen could feel the flames at her back, and yet she still tried to flee, to avoid the inevitable. It was not meant to be. The Dragon was faster.

He was upon her in moments. Not even the sound of a billion marching soldiers was enough to mask her movements. The flames hit her first. Burning, terrible burning, boiling alive within her own skin. She fell to the ground with the very first attack. But the Dragon was not satisfied. He pounced, like a cat eager to play with a new toy. His teeth met flesh, his claws rent her body to bits.

And truly, was there any other alternative? She was doomed from the start. She was not fit to be a Queen. She was not fit to rule. From the moment she took the crown, she was doomed. It was only a question of how long. And as every fiber of her being is torn to shreds, she was allowed a moment to contemplate on her own failures. So stupid, So naive. What was she thinking, trying to be the hero? Trying so hard, so desperately to mean something. But here she was, dying in an alleyway. Pathetic. How worthless-

\--------------------------------------

I didn’t bolt into a sitting position, gasping for breath. I didn’t even fall out of bed screaming. TVs always lied. Instead, I was simply dragged from the inky blackness of sleep to find myself sobbing into my pillow, my limbs feeling as if they were made of iron. I didn’t resist. It was a good few minutes before I was able to somewhat recover, the nightmare fading from my memory. It felt so vivid, and yet...The only remnants now were vague feelings. Outlines. Flashes of frost so cold that it felt as if my skin was on fire. Long, frozen limbs rending me into a thousand thin threads and stitching me back together. A cruel mockery of my life, of Brockton Bay, hell, I bet Lung would even be upset by his portrayal in my nightmares.

With my senses returning to me, I figured it would be best to finally start the day. Sliding from the bed, I stumbled my way out of the bedroom, finding the bathroom easily enough. It was several minutes past 6:30 in the morning. Go figure. I return from an eon of torture and I immediately fall back into my old schedule. Only...no school. No dad. No...nothing.

That thought woke me up better than the cold shower did.

Miss Jeanne was still asleep, so I helped myself to breakfast. I briefly considered settling for cold pop-tarts, but to my dismay, Miss Jeanne didn’t have any, so scrambled eggs it was. I even went the extra mile and made Miss Jeanne some, with toast and jam too. It was the least I could do, I suppose. 

As I ate, I considered my next move. If I wanted to raid my house, I’d have to wait until Dad and the fake left. Well, at least I hope they’ll leave. I guess it was possible my fake had flunked out of school in an attempt to ruin my life further. I’d have to wait and see, I suppose. 

I’m going to need some way to make money, eventually. I refuse to mooch off an old lady forever. I don’t think I have it in me to steal from too many people, either. This is just...a means to an end. I’ll pay them all back, once I get my life in order. Just need to get there first. In the meantime, maybe I could…

Art. The thought gives a little shudder down my spine. I have...plenty of experience, but the thought of putting myself through more of that sort of thing...even if it’s nothing like what happened in the Other Place, it still makes me sick. No acting. I was always drawn or written about, rather than the other way around. Music, though. Music was never that awful. The music I heard on the Other Side was haunting and beautiful, and during my eons there I felt every emotion imaginable from the twisted melodies. And then I thought before all that, and I can remember my mother, practicing with her old flute. Warm, flushed memories of home. I needed that.

It was a few minutes later when I was snapped out of my daze by Miss Jeanne. My face was warm and my eyes hurt. I had been crying. Rubbing my eyes, I gradually brought myself back to reality. My head danced with old memories, and I almost found myself drifting off again if it hadn’t been for Miss Jeanne’s firm grip on my shoulder, and how she kept asking me what was wrong.

I shook her off. Told her I needed air, that I was going to take a walk. I wasn’t really lying, either. I needed to get away from the tangling thorn bushes and frozen flowers that pushed their way in at the edges of my vision. I scratched at the old cuts from my time running through those bushes, and it felt like they were being torn open anew. I needed to get out. Clear my head.

When I got out of the house, I ran.

\--------------------------------------

The park was nice. It was nice to see some plant life that wasn’t thorn bushes. Really, just seeing something that wasn’t so green helped. It was late in the fall, so the park was a sea of oranges and browns. The scent of decaying leaves heavy in the air. I always liked fall the most Too hot in the summer, too much rain in the spring, and, well, if I enjoyed the winter before, I definitely don’t know. But fall? Fall was nice. Just the right amount of cool, an array of beautiful colors and sights, Thanksgiving dinner and trick-or-treating…

It had the desired effect. My senses returned to me as I sat on a bench staring out across the park. I’m not entirely sure what happened back during breakfast. I just got so caught up in my memories. Maybe thinking about the other side so much isn’t good for me. It’s hard, though. I’m trying to pull any sort of useful information from my time over there, but only parts of it stick. It still feels like an old nightmare. And the worst thing is, it wasn’t even entirely bad. Sure, there was the whole ‘eons of torture’ thing, but there were so many beautiful moments too. Crowds of adoring fans, pleasant moments of slice-of-life and build-up, the most breathtaking sights you can imagine…

I pinched myself, using the slight pain as an anchor to bring me back into the present moment before my thoughts turned to harsher things. I needed to focus on the here and now. I started to people-watch to fill my thoughts. It was better than staring at nature. There was a young mother pushing a stroller. A young couple cuddling on a bench. A woman walking her dogs. With a tail. She has a tail. Legs are not supposed to bend that way. I pinched myself again but the sight didn’t go away. Instead, the woman turned, and our eyes met, and she flinched back as if struck. My heart plummeted.

We stared at each other for what felt like a while but was likely no more than a minute. She was a rough looking sort. Ragged clothing, hard features, nicks and scars and bruises on the places I could see. She had a tail that was literally between her legs, the same color as her hair. I saw patches of fur under her clothing, sharp teeth in her gaping mouth, her hands looked more like paws with sharp little claws. 

I can’t say why she did it, but she actually approached me, walking over to my bench and sitting next to me. We sat in silence for another few moments, as her dogs curiously sniffed around the area. She must have seen something in me, and I wasn’t sure what, and that scared me.

“Just escape?” The dog-woman asked suddenly, staring right at me with a grimace, her voice just as gruff as her general demeanor. 

“W-what?” I stumbled over my own words, staring back at her slack-jawed.

“Did you just escape?” The woman repeated, looking like she was growing more agitated with me by the second.

“I- I don’t know what you’re-”

“Don’t play dumb.” She snapped, glaring at me some more. “You look clueless. No one stares at me like that. You saw what I am. I saw what you are. Don’t. Play. Dumb.”

“I-I-” I stumbled over my words, leaning away from the literally growling woman feeling frankly rather threatened. “Alright, yes! I only escaped a few days ago!” I spat at her. The way I saw it, it really doesn’t matter if someone thinks you’re crazy when they’re clearly crazy themselves. And also a dog-woman. That was still confusing.

Said dog woman managed to look satisfied, nodding. She paused for a moment, looking about the park, before thumping a hand on her chest. “Beast.” She mutters, and then poked me in my chest. “Fairest.”

“Wha-”

“Those are the words, people like us use ‘em. They’re dumb, but we use ‘em. I got a tail. You’re so pretty it hurts. Beast. Fairest.” She tapped her chest and then poked mine with the last two words, her voice a low growl.

“Why are you telling me this?” I muttered, flinching away from the prodding and scooting towards the edge of the bench. She clearly didn’t enjoy having a conversation with me, and I certainly wasn’t enjoying our little chat.

“Gotta.” She sighs, leaning away from me to pet one of her dogs. “We all escaped. All got changed. Someone told me, so I tell you, you tell someone else. We’re a pack.”

“So there are others like us?” I relax a bit, admittedly, since knowing that there are others that were taken like me actually makes me feel better. Maybe I’m not so alone.

“A lot. Most in other cities. Only a few here. Menja and Fenja. They’re Ogres. Big and ugly. Don’t like them. Spitfire. Elemental. Burns stuff. She’s okay. Parian. Wizened. Makes stuff. Eh.” She spoke in short, clipped sentences, rattling off the descriptions. I take it that she doesn’t like to talk much. 

“Those are all capes.” It wasn’t accusational, or even a question. More of just a remark. Dog-woman just grunted and nodded. I suppose it made sense. If we all got weird powers, like this, then being capes made sense. I’d...have to think about that. “Does that mean you’re one, too?”

She glared at me, then, for a long moment. It wasn’t a great leap of logic to make. I guess we all had to trust each other, a little bit, since we can apparently pick each other up by sight. In the end, she didn’t bother answering me. “We’re Changelings. Replacements are called Fetches. Don’t ask, don’t know, didn’t get one. Powers are called Contracts. Got a little bit of everything. Need to eat normal people’s emotions. No, it doesn’t hurt them, just stand near some sad people or something. Things that took you are Keepers. Don’t ask, don’t want to know. Hedges holds useful things. Done.” She speaks rapidly there, struggling to get through her explanations as fast as possible, and then stands suddenly, starting to walk away with her dogs.

“Wait!” I called out, and she halted, turning around to glare at me again. “You never introduced yourself,” I muttered. She squinted a little and sighed.

“Call me Bitch.” She finally replied and continued walking away before I could press any further, leaving me along on that bench with a lot more to process.


End file.
